


The Lord of the Rings: The Continuing Effects

by mai_ei_mai



Series: Bilbo the Red [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Partial Fix-It, Wizard Bilbo, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 11:42:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 20,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3486998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mai_ei_mai/pseuds/mai_ei_mai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or “How the Fellowship of the Ring discovered the meddling of the Red Wizard”</p><p>Frodo Baggins inherited more than just a ring, but a responsibility to adventure, confront adversity, and defeat evil.  The One Ring must be destroyed, and so a fellowship has formed.  For some reason, they keep encountering signs of another wizard.  One who has spent years assisting them, before the ring was uncovered and without the knowledge nor approval of the White Council.</p><p>The Red Wizard must be incredibly powerful to have greater foresight and better schemes than everyone else in Middle Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which kings and wizards are discussed

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of these wonderful characters, nor any of the settings of Middle-Earth. No disrespect nor offense is intended. I have taken elements from the books and movies and shaken until I got what I wanted. If anything is glaringly wrong, let me know, otherwise, I have tampered to force it to make sense. Supposedly, the timeline and geography are the only things that remains intact.

The Citadel of Minas Tirith held more history in its throne room for its stewards than its kings in recent generations. Boromir stared at the empty throne perched on its pedestal. He and his brother had been called to report on their actions in Osgiliath. Boromir had difficulty refocusing his attention to the situation at hand, his father lounged in the Steward’s Throne, a placeholder for a long absent monarch. However, ancient history held no place in war, the ground lost to the encroaching enemy continued to grow.

At least he and Faramir had managed to maintain control of the western shore of Osgiliath and destroy the temporary bridges of the city. The enemy would be forced to forge the river at great cost of life to take the rest of the city. The men of Gondor would not easily fall into darkness.

Boromir’s father did not share his ideals, his father was not pleased with secondary triumphs. Gondor had controlled Osgiliath since Denethor’s youth. Now, Minas Tirith could only depend on a single shoreline to keep the enemy at bay, and gaining control of the eastern shore was not possible without extreme difficulty. “My sons have served well,” Denethor began, “but Gondor deserves better than hollow victories.” He stood and paced toward Boromir, all but ignoring Faramir at his brother’s side. Denethor continued, “We must be vigilant against the enemy. There are agents that seek our destruction and all we hold dear.” He seemed to finally notice his second son. “We must retake the city.”

Boromir knew that his father desired to protect Gondor and her people, but occasionally such efforts came at a cost he did not approve. Boromir’s namesake had turned Osgiliath to ruins retaking it generations ago. Gondor did not have the men nor arms to spend on fruitless campaigns. Let the enemy throw armies against the river, Gondor would hold them back without compromising.

Denethor stalked back to his throne and sat. He continued to address his sons standing at attention before him. “Since the wizard has robbed us of our advantage, Faramir, you must use your foresight in service to Gondor.” Boromir inwardly sighed, his father could only see the uses for his sons, not them as his sons. Faramir had more prophetic dreams than the rest of their family; they were useful, but cryptic and vague. In addition, Boromir knew his father would assume any absence of visions to be a deficiency of Faramir, not any guidance as an asset, and condemn Faramir for any losses.

Faramir looked to his brother and spoke of the common dream they had experienced. “A vision has directed me to Imladris, in which we may find Isildur’s Bane and the Sword that was broken.” He continued, “Father, the wizard was...”

“Do not speak to me of him,” Denethor interrupted. He leaned forward in his throne, and clenched his fists, shaking with repressed rage. “He was a liar and a thief. The Red Wizard has no love for Gondor, he would work against us to return a false king.”

Boromir knew that any defense of his childhood tutor would not be welcome. “Father,” he beseeched, “I, too, have heard the words directing us to Imladris. Let Faramir seek our weapon.”

Denethor seemed to hear the plea, but only after Boromir had added his voice to Faramir’s. “You will go, Boromir,” he decreed. “Find Isildur’s Bane in Imladris, an elvish name for Rivendell. The hidden stronghold can be found in the North, near the roads across the Misty Mountains. You will return to our city with Gondor’s heirloom to use against the enemy.”

Boromir nodded and turned to the door, but lingered in the entrance to wait for his brother. He knew that his father would not keep Faramir long. Denethor relaxed against the Steward’s Throne, talk of the wizard had always been a sour subject. “Faramir, remember that you are a son of Gondor, be more than the wizard’s pupil. Do not forget your duty to our people.”

Faramir stiffened at the accusation. “I know my duty, father.”

Boromir knew that his father would not believe such reassurance without grand deeds. Faramir served honorably, but their father saw only the worst. Denethor disregarded his second son with a curt hand wave. “You will take Boromir’s place as Captain of the White Tower. Ride for Henneth Annûn and defend the river crossings at Osgiliath and Cair Andros,” he said, finally dismissing his sons.

Boromir waited for his brother to join him, then they walked out of the Tower back toward the city. They had mounts and gear to prepare for their journeys. Once they had passed out of the Citadel, Faramir grabbed Boromir by the arm and paused in the street.

“Be careful, brother, the dream was only words, but words can be used instead of strength of arms,” Faramir warned.

Since having the dream, Boromir knew the power in such foresight, and knew that they had not shared everything with their father. “And what of the Halfling in the dream?” Boromir asked quietly. “Should Father not be warned about the one he accuses of so much?”

Faramir shook his head and released his brother. “Father has given us our orders, Boromir. He must safeguard against the orcs already moving against us. He has no concern for a Halfling.” Faramir continued walking deeper into the city. “The wizard had no love for kings. He said he would follow only one, one who died with his heirs.”

“You see,” Boromir let out a short laugh, “Even he believed the line of Isildur was broken long ago, there is no king for Gondor.”

Faramir sighed, this had long been an argument between them. Boromir knew that Faramir was entranced by the notion of the long gone royalty. He was too blinded by his childhood loyalty to their tutor. “And what did the Red Wizard know of kings?” Boromir asked. Faramir remembered much of their departed tutor and shared his wisdom. The brothers continued through the city and were parted on their tasks.

Months later, once he had reached Rivendell, Boromir found himself confronted by one who others would call his king. Boromir recalled his brother’s answer. Faramir had smiled and replied, “He said the man, not the crown, made the king.”


	2. In which Dwarrows have returned to Khazad-dûm

Sam grumbled to himself as the fellowship scattered to rest around the clearing. “All that bother hiking up the mountain, and then we had to climb back down and go under it.” He looked up at the shining rock face, “Glowing doors, unnatural is what that is.” He absently picked up a few more shriveled apples from the underbrush. Unfortunately, he couldn’t reach the slightly better fruits still clinging to the tree because of the patches of thorny holly trees.

Sam put the few apples still fit to eaten into his rucksack and gave one to Bill. The pony nipped at Sam’s fingers, seeking more fresh food. Sam tossed the rotted apples over his shoulder, and heard a splash as they hit the water of the lake behind him. He moved to stand next to Bill and began untying the harness. “The mines are no place for a pony,” he muttered, a poor imitation of the admonishment, even as he acknowledged the wisdom. Bill would be much safer facing wolves than anything they would find underground. Sam carefully finished freeing Bill and let him loose. The pony pushed for a few more scratches and begged for more apples, but started back toward the wilds.

Sam heard more splashes as Pippin decided to throw rocks into the water, aiming for the floating apples. Boromir put a stop to the game when Gandalf finally remembered the password to open the doors. The rock face shifted to reveal a darkened doorway into the mountain. “Bother it,” Sam said as he adjusted his pack straps, “Mister Frodo knows what he’s doing, but it sure would be nice to not be hounded the whole way.”

The fellowship carefully followed Gandalf into the mines; Boromir stayed close to Sam and the hobbits, while Gimli strained forward to meet his family already in the mines. He seemed anxious to find the other dwarves and have a comfortable evening instead of rough camping. Sam wanted to be able to rest for a short time as well. The wilds were no place for a hobbit used to the comforts of home.

Suddenly, Boromir stopped short as the light on Gandalf’s staff illuminated the entrance. Dusty bodies were piled haphazardly around the room, some with arrows still piercing them. Armor and weapons were pushed together into disordered heaps. A rough path wound its way through the shambles, leading to a door deeper into the mountains.

“This is no mine,” gasped Boromir, “it is a tomb.” He sounded horrified by the corpses littering the room. Sam worried about what could cause a soldier to be so affected. Maybe they were better off fighting an evil wizard’s snowstorm than whatever could kill so many. He started edging back to the entrance, pushing Frodo along, when one of the piles of armor on the other side of the room moved.

The armor shifted and stood up, adjusted its footing and leaned its battleaxe to stand against the wall. “Aye, a tomb for any orc foolish enough to enter a dwarven stronghold,” it spoke. The figure took off its helm to reveal a coarse face with a dark beard and hair.

Gimli pushed past Gandalf and embraced the figure with a hearty backslap. “Gimli, son of Glóin, at your service,” he bellowed.

The other dwarf returned the welcome and spoke quietly with Gimli. He motioned for Gimli to follow him deeper into the mines. “You and your companions are welcome in Khazad-dûm, but you should speak with the Lord. We’ve had some trouble with others passing through.”

Sam looked back longingly to the moonlit clearing, to the bobbing apples slowly sinking into the lake and the scrub into which Bill had disappeared. The mines were no place for a hobbit, but Frodo had made his choice, and a mountain full of warriors like Gimli would be safer than facing the wizard’s wrath.

That night, the fellowship camped in an abandoned hall. Their guide went on without them, to notify his leader, so he could meet with Gandalf. The great columns of the hall showed incredible dwarven workmanship. Centuries after being abandoned, the space was still roughly habitable. Even Legolas could admire the mastery of architecture. Gandalf explained that the wealth of Moria was mithril, a precious metal that Bilbo had once worn. Sam wondered if the mithril mail would have been able to protect Frodo at Weathertop. Perhaps then the morgul blade would have done less damage.

The next morning, their guide had not yet returned, but the company had to keep moving. Gandalf set forth, following the directions of the absent dwarf. Unfortunately, the party had to pause at an intersection of three stairs so Gandalf could recall the proper path. Gandalf and Frodo spoke quietly while Sam adjusted the contents of his rucksack. The apples were gone and his cooking pan kept swinging as he walked. Every day brought a new form of torment in traveling. Gandalf abruptly made up his mind about their course and led them to another great hall in which a dwarven campsite was set up near a column. Wood and rocks had been piled into rough walls, little better than privacy screens; the encampment was comfortable even with such limited resources.

Aragorn directed the hobbits to set up camp, and reminded everyone of the secrecy of their journey, while Gimli happily joined the other dwarves across the hall. One dwarf with a long white beard and elaborate armor greeted the rest of the fellowship and introduced himself as Balin, from one of Bilbo’s stories. He seemed amused to find Legolas as a guest, and outright pleased to see Gimli. Gandalf walked away from the camp with Balin to confer.

Sam surreptitiously inched closer to hear. “You were feared lost,” Gandalf said.

“Aye,” agreed Balin, “we sent out birds every few years until they were gone, but most were shot down by orcs over the Mirrormere. The last we saw make it past the forest was nigh on twenty years ago.” Balin sounded upset at the losses. “We’ve had no messages in or out of the mountains since, we couldn’t risk sending a scout so far.”

“And Durin’s Bane?” Gandalf asked quietly. “Is the mountain safe from the depths?”

Balin shook his head, “We’ve not seen anything that could be Durin’s Bane. The Watcher guards the Doors of Durin and no orc has managed to breach the Great Gates. We’ve heard screams coming from the Dimrill Dale.” Balin paused to give the wizard a moment to contemplate the report. Sam wasn’t sure about continuing on their path, screams were not a pleasant thought.

After a few moments, Balin continued, “Occasionally, raiding parties will emerge from the depths, so we camp in the defensible Twenty-first Hall and send out scouts. Some goblins and small orc parties will attack, but we can depend on the mountain’s safety.” He motioned to another dwarf to join them. “Ori can tell you more.”

The new dwarf was wearing a long cloak, he wasn’t carrying a weapon, and he was the only dwarf wearing robes instead of armor. “Gandalf,” Ori began, “we found this in the Dimrill Dale, near the remnants of the doors, before we entered.” He reached into his cloak and pulled out a roughly bound book. The red cover had scratches and scorch marks, but the pages opened to neatly written words. Ori flipped to the last written page, partway through the book, and handed the precious tome to the wizard.

“It followed me out. It followed me out. A shadow moved from the dark. It followed me out. Drums, drums in the deep. They are coming.” Gandalf recited.

Ori took back the book and placed it in the satchel beneath his cloak. “The book mentions traveling through Khazad-dûm for months before being forced to flee. There are notes about secret things, things no-one should know but those who lived here ages ago.”

Gandalf looked confused by the notion of an inhabitant of the mines, but Ori was not yet finished in his account. “The West-Gate is only secure because we offer tribute to the Watcher, as we learned from the book. According to the opening page, this is the Red Book, and it is part of an unfinished set.”

“We think the author loosed Durin’s Bane, and destroyed it.” Balin interrupted. “The book was found near a blackened crater, steps from the destroyed doors.”

Gandalf shook his head. “To destroy evil such as that alone would take more than strength.”

“Perhaps a wizard?” Ori asked. “A Red to write the book, no-one else could know such secrets.”

“The Red. Hmm.” Gandalf looked pensive at the thought. “It is true that Moria is very different from my last visit. The air is decidedly less foul.”

Balin nodded, “The valley has changed from when I saw Azanulbizar last. We buried Flói beneath a trio of centuries-old rowans.”

“The world is in motion,” Gandalf warned. “Make safe your colony in the mines, but look also to the surface. War may come to you.” Ori pulled Balin aside, they said polite farewells to Gandalf, then departed across the hall.

Sam waited until Balin and Ori left to return their own campsite before approaching Gandalf. “Are there many wizards?”

“Oh yes, Balin met Radagast the Brown many years ago. There are others.” His voice trailed off as he counted on his hand. “Perhaps another was sent.” He gathered his staff and pulled it tightly to his chest. He looked around, noticed the others on the far side of the chamber, then peered down at Sam with a frown.

“And what have I told you about eavesdropping, Samwise Gamgee?” the wizard asked.

Sam blustered about being caught listening, “No need to get testy, just curious is all.”

Gandalf smiled at the fussing, “Bilbo and his company met Radagast, as I said,” he continued, “Saruman the White was head of my order, and the Blues went east long ago. A Red wizard may have saved us a great deal of trouble by cleaning Moria of its deepest filth.”

That night was the cheeriest evening for everyone in the fellowship since Rivendell. Gimli’s boasts about the hospitality of the dwarves were exceeded. Ori regaled the fellowship with stories of the colony; they had recovered artifacts, reinforced collapsing sections, fought all manner of fell creatures, and explored areas no dwarf had seen in ages.

The next morning, Balin gifted the fellowship with leather jerkins delicately embroidered with mithril for almost everyone. Even dwarves tended to make armor larger than hobbit-size, a common oversight beyond the borders of the Shire. The dwarves could only share what they had found, the shining veins of mithril visible in some areas of the mine had not been extracted, exploration and defense were of higher priority than mining. Legolas seemed surprised by his gift, as much an elf showed surprise.

Sam was glad for the respite, a few days in pleasant company without having to constantly look for dangers was not likely to happen closer to their destination. Balin accompanied them to a set of giant doors which hung securely but awkwardly on the eastern side of the mountains. One of his followers gave a shout about a cave troll from the halls, so Balin gave Gimli a final backslap, wished them a quick “Good-bye and good luck,” then turned to the mines with a battle cry. Gimli stepped toward the darkened hallway, but Balin pushed him back and shouted, “Fly, you fools.”


	3. In which Gandalf the Grey falls

The peaceful pool of water sitting in the shallow bowl taunted Frodo, hiding its true purpose and ability. Lady Galadriel had stepped back to allow him to gaze into the silver basin, but Frodo regretted his decision to learn more of what may be. Nightmarish scenes haunted his thoughts, a reminder of the importance of his quest.

After resting in the groves of Lórien, restocking precious supplies and regaining the will to continue, Frodo felt reluctance toward his imminent departure. There would be no safe havens in the territory to come. The true test of their fellowship would come in the wilds and Mordor itself, if they managed to reach so close to the enemy.

He was willing to share the burden of the ring, yet the Lady rejected the trinket with an unsteady hand. Her terror of what she could accomplish with the ring was not unjustified, Frodo feared his own as yet unmade choices. He could not object to an honest refusal, an honest reflection of one’s ability to resist the ring’s machinations; this would be his task. Uncle Bilbo had resisted for many years, Frodo could continue so long as he held true.

The rough step of someone else entering the clearing caught Frodo’s attention. He turned around, tucking the ring back under his shirt, to see Gandalf speaking with the Lady.

Although he could not hear their discussion, Frodo knew that Gandalf would desire to consult the waters. Their fellowship faced tremendous difficulties, any guidance would be essential. With the betrayal of Saruman, their enemy’s might had increased.

Frodo stood back to allow the wizard a better vantage of the basin. Gandalf walked to stand next to Frodo and leaned forward, gazing into the watery depths. Frodo saw only darkness, he held no view of the vision that so entranced the wizard.

“You must not touch the water,” warned Galadriel, returning her silver ewer to its pedestal, “the foresight of the mirror is too complex to comprehend directly.”

However, whatever scenes presented to him caused Gandalf to tighten his grip. His hands shifted slightly inside the edge of the basin, and a single finger barely dipped into the darkened water. Frodo could only watch in horror as Gandalf slipped to the side and began to fall.

Frodo stumbled forward, trying to help, but was unable to assist. Mercifully, the Lady caught Gandalf in her arms and cradled him protectively. Frodo pulled on Gandalf’s arm, attempting to awaken him, but there was no sound from the fallen wizard. He would not respond to any of Frodo’s calls.

Galadriel swung the wizard with surprising ease into her arms and walked with Frodo on her heels to another section of the woodland city. Other elves paused in their business to watch the spectacle pass, Frodo felt ashamed to have no ability to shield the dignity of his friend. A mournful tune arose from the witnesses of Gandalf’s plight, spreading the unfortunate news. Although Uncle Bilbo’s lessons on elven languages were from so long ago, Frodo recognized the lamentations as a traditional song of grief. Whatever fate had befallen Gandalf was not a pleasant one.

Frodo followed Galadriel into an airy room, a sparse chamber with a single bed and a few chairs. The open windows allowed the light of the Golden Woods to penetrate the room, along with a light breeze. However, the windows also allowed in the noises from the nearby surroundings, the same mournful tones that had followed them through the city. Galadriel placed Gandalf onto the intricately carved bed and tucked him under a thin cover. She called for an attendant to sit with the immobile wizard. Although Frodo did not have the heart to leave his friend, the others had to be informed.

Frodo returned to the fellowship’s campsite, now hung with an air of melancholy. He could see the other hobbit’s questioning Legolas about the songs, trying to find some sense in the mystery. Sam tried to lighten the mood; but, for Frodo, the grief was still too fresh. Legolas seemed hesitant to explain the city’s sudden mourning.

The others had not yet realized the significance of Frodo’s arrival. To him, it appeared as though Legolas and Aragorn understood the purpose of the lamentations, however, they had not yet been informed as to the reasoning nor the source.

Frodo walked to Aragorn, the man had proven himself a worthy leader on their way to Rivendell. The fellowship would need a new beacon without the wizard. Although he was the official ringbearer, he depended on the advice of the party’s leader. Frodo shared what had occurred in the clearing, that Gandalf had joined him in seeking guidance from the Lady’s magics.

“And Gandalf,” asked Aragorn, noting the absence, “where is the Grey Wizard?”

“He fell,” gasped Frodo, trying to convey what horror he had felt watching his friend collapse. “He looked into the Lady’s mirror and fell.” He shuddered to himself, for if the mightiest of them could be so easily departed from the quest, then what hope for success could they expect.

Frodo felt a hand on his shoulder, he had been so absorbed in his regret that he had not noticed the Lady accompanying him to the site. “He has fallen into shadow,” she decreed. However, she smiled reassuringly. “But do not be afraid, even the wizard has his part yet to play.”

Gandalf’s trance continued throughout the night, and into the next morning, with no apparent change. Since the healers had no knowledge of the wizard’s time of awakening, Aragorn instructed the fellowship to organize their supplies for a quick departure. Though the fellowship was wary of proceeding without Gandalf, they had no option but to continue the quest. The fates of all free peoples, and that of the ring, weighed heavily upon them. The few morning, they set sail along the river with gifts from their hosts. They left with the many well-wishes of the elves of Lórien, and with heartfelt blessings on their journey.


	4. In which the Riddermark loses a prince

The orcs that swarmed the river had little knowledge of battle tactics, or they simply cared more for carnage than survival. After riding out to meet the forces of Isengard on the western shore, and suffering heavy casualties during the cavalry's ensuing retreat, the orcs were finally defeated. Although his men would hold the Fords, Théodred felt their losses keenly.

Théodred knew that Grimbold’s forces had only managed to reach the river because the orcs had thrown themselves at the hill on which he was entrenched. He was being targeted, his men would continue to be harassed so long as he remained in their company.

However, unlikely allies had appeared from the eastern shore in time to flank the orc horde and prevent the hill from being overrun. No man in Rohan had seen such small, but fierce, fighters in generations. Dwarves were usually too absorbed with their mountains to concern themselves with the affairs of men.

Théodred sent out scouts to confirm the movements of the orcs, then sent word to the dwarves of his intention to speak with their leader. Although the intense fighters numbered only a few, their abilities had sent chaos into the ranks of the orcs. He owed the dwarves his continued occupation of the hill, and his life.

Two dwarves marched to meet with him; both wore elaborate armor, the work of masters, but only one wore a crest of stars and an intricate helm. The dwarf removed his helm and Théodred was surprised to see thick white hair, more suited to a man of his father’s generation than that of a still strong battle commander.

“Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria,” the dwarf introduced himself, bowing sightly at the waist.

Théodred was amazed to hear mention of Moria, the haunted halls had not boasted of a lord in centuries. In addition, his family had no word of allies to the North beyond the treacherous Saruman. However, he felt deep gratitude for the assistance of the dwarves of Moria.

Théodred returned the bow, he owed much to this dwarf, and introduced himself, “Théodred, son of Théoden-king, Second Marshall of the Riddermark.”

Once they had finished the formal greetings, Théodred led Balin and his companion to the rough camp his men had made on the top of the hill. They could confer with his captains while securing the region.

While Balin discussed the battle with Elfhelm and Grimbold, Théodred was pleased to hear the thundering footsteps of approaching riders. A cavalry company appeared from the East, led by a welcome sight. Théodred sent word for his newly arrived cousin to join the council, Éomer would have news from the Eastfold.

Théodred greeted his cousin with a tight handshake and hug, he had feared himself and the Fords lost. None of his men had realized the depth of their dire situation before the dwarves arrived. From the corner of his eye, Théodred saw a knowing smile grow on the face of Balin, this one had seen many battles end in blood and was pleased to prevent the massacre of Théodred’s forces. He would be an honorable ally and neighbor.

Éomer spoke of orcs roaming the fields of the Eastfold, marching under the banner of a red eye, but sent from the forests to the North. This was ill news, for the orcs at the Fords were coming from Isengard, and marked with a white hand. Saruman was no longer a friend of Rohan.

Balin agreed with the reports of Éomer. “Orcs of the Red Eye, from Mirkwood, have crossed the Anduin and attacked our entrance for decades.” The dwarf said, “Yet none have managed to navigate our mountain forest, nor breached our doors.”

Éomer said he had sent scouts through the Wold, some reported a fortress in Mirkwood was marshaling troops, but he could not identify their master. Théodred would have desired more information, but the presence of two orc armies meant he had deeper problems. Should the two conspire, Rohan would face war on two fronts. Grimbold informed Éomer that they could count Saruman as an enemy.

“Crebain fly from Isengard to the dark fortress in Mirkwood.” said Balin’s companion, confirming Théodred’s dread. The crows were an ill-suited messenger, unable to maintain secrecy, but their presence would mean orcs running dispatches. Théodred and his men would have to reduce the avian infestation. Already, the birds spied on troop movements and reported to Isengard.

“Well said, Náli,” said Balin, he too appeared distressed by an alliance of orcs, “return to the mountains and set watches on the Anduin. Widen the patrols into the forests, interrupt their communications.” Balin dismissed his companion who then disappeared down the hill.

Théodred’s attention returned to the orcs he had faced, they would still have to contend with the wizard’s forces. “We will have no peace until the armies of orcs are defeated,” he said, “and Saruman is breeding his own. Soon he will march on Rohan.”

Théodred looked to Balin, hoping that the dwarf would have the forces or some relic to assist. The depths of Moria contained many possibilities. However, Balin shook his head with regret. “We have not the arms able to break the wizard’s stronghold.” Not even dwarven craftsmen could surmount the tower’s magics.

“Then we will need another wizard.” Éomer announced, “Saruman could not hold against one of his fellows.”

However, there were few capable of being considered a fellow of wizards. In addition, they were difficult to find. “Gandalf has long been a friend of mine,” said Balin, “but he has another task, one which I fear will take him far from Rohan.”

“No matter,” responded Théodred, “the Grey Pilgrim has lost his favor in Edoras, Théoden-king listens to another’s voice.”

“And what of the Red?” questioned Éomer. “He was a friend to our family, he may be persuaded to return.”

“You have news of the Red Wizard?” interrupted Balin, “My people owe him a great debt, do you know of his location?”

Théodred shook his head, “Long has it been since Turvellon graced my father’s halls. He left long ago, and made no mention of his destination.” He stopped and considered, “However, there are stories of a lone traveller, garbed in red, darting along the roads years ago. He was headed to the North at a great pace.”

Elfhelm called for one of his horsemen to come forward, no doubt intending to send him on the northward task, but Théodred interrupted the instructions.

“I will go north,” Théodred said, “to seek an alliance for the Riddermark.” He knew his men required assistance, and that his absence would lessen the fixation from Saruman. Perhaps he could lead the orcs into the wilds, away from Rohan.

However, his decision was not well received by his countrymen. Grimbold protested the loss of his captain, while Elfhelm wanted to strengthen their defenses. Théodred was reminded that as Second Marshall, he had a duty to remain with his company and organize the western patrols. Éomer spoke of waiting to hear from Edoras, so that Théodred could go with the blessings of his father.

Although Théodred knew that his actions were in the best interests of Rohan and its peoples, it would reflect poorly when presented to his father. He would be leaving the borders without orders from his king.

Théodred’s final decisions were to safeguard his country during his absence. “Elfhelm, you must defend the Westfold as Second Marshall while I am north. Grimbold, you will hold the Fords.” Théodred paused and spoke with his cousin in a low tone. “Éomer, I must ask you to take word to Edoras, that I have gone north to seek out the Red Wizard; tell my father that this is for Rohan.”

Théodred waited to ensure he held Éomer’s full attention, “Do not trust all in Meduseld,” he warned, “Saruman desires to end the line of Eorl. He would destroy Edoras, and all within, to see you and Father dead.” Théodred could offer no other counsel to his cousin, a man he had long considered his brother.

Elfhelm tried to reason with Théodred one last time, “Théodred-prince, you are leaving your post in a time of war, you know what will happen.”

However, the prince of the Riddermark knew that his duty to his people lay without them. Théodred mounted his horse and rode to the western shore before heading to the North. He would face the consequences of his desertion, as a proud son of Rohan.


	5. In which the Fellowship is broken

Aragorn sprinted down the hill of Amon Hen; the Horn of Gondor had sounded after he left Frodo at the summit ruins, Sting still brightly glowing blue. However, the Horn had fallen worryingly silent as he raced toward Parth Galen. There would be no reinforcements to aid Boromir except the fellowship, the Horn was likely to summon more enemies in place of aid.

Aragorn pushed through many enemies on his way, orcs marked with a painted white hand. They seemed intent on another purpose, still moving to fight him and yet beginning to retreat without success.

He entered a clearing and beheld Boromir still wavering on his feet, his torso pierced with many arrows. The captain still fought against a massive Uruk-hai, but was unable to maintain his stance. Boromir dropped to the ground and laid still, seemingly abandoned by his companions and left to the mercy of orcs.

Aragorn charged the final enemy, and dispatched the brute, defending his fallen friend. Aragorn hurried to Boromir’s side, fearing the worst. However, Boromir’s wounds were less severe than anticipated. The mithril threads on his jerkin had caught the arrows before they could penetrate too deeply. Although wounded, Boromir would live once the cuts were cleaned and bound, but would then need further care.

Boromir reached out and clasped Aragorn’s hand. “I tried to take the ring,” he confessed to Aragorn. “I tried to force Frodo to give it to me. I desired to use it in defense of Gondor.” However, both had felt the whispers in their minds, were tempted into falling to the ring, and of failing the fellowship. Aragorn could see the regret in Boromir’s eyes, the man had no desire to pursue the fleeing Frodo.

Aragorn was reminded of his own temptation and the failure of his line. By sending Frodo away, Aragorn had lost all ability to atone for his ancestor’s mistake. However, the greatest chance for success lay in Frodo alone. The ring would go to Mordor, but without the support of the fellowship.

Aragorn lifted Boromir so they could walk to the shore together. As they limped along, Boromir spoke of the fates of Merry and Pippin, lost to the retreating enemies. The hobbits would have no defense against the enemy’s wrath, once he uncovered their ignorance of the ring’s location.

Legolas and Gimli, both safe from injury, joined the two men on the shore. Their campsite was in disarray, supplies were trampled, and a boat was missing. Legolas shouted about following to the opposite shore, to catch up with Frodo, and likely Sam as well, but Aragorn dissuaded them. The only paths south were the Stairs to the western shore below the Falls or Emyn Muil then the swamps, as Frodo well knew. The ringbearer had made his choice, it was now Aragorn’s responsibility to respect such action.

“We will not abandon Merry and Pippin to the torments of captivity.” Aragorn commanded. He assisted Boromir into one of the remaining boats. “Boromir will return to Lothlórien for healing and then go to the White City when able.” Boromir seemed offended to be ordered to rest, yet was unable to travel south alone. He would need time to recover. “We will hunt the orcs that have taken our companions.” Aragorn concluded.

He refused to abandon any innocents to the orcs; no matter their ability, Merry and Pippin were still innocent of much of the world. Although Aragorn was loath to part with Boromir, hesitant to send him into the wilds alone, the three remaining companions would be better able to race the orcs without him.

“So the fellowship has failed.” Legolas lamented, still looking at the far shore. Aragorn felt Boromir flinch at the accusation. However, there was no failure. The ring’s whispers would have continued to affect the company, better to part now than to risk drawing the enemy’s gaze. With Sam for company, Frodo was in good hands. The fellowship had played its role in accompanying Frodo as best they could. It would be up to him to see the ring’s destruction done.

Though hesitant to abandon Frodo, Legolas and Gimli understood the horrors that awaited Merry and Pippin. Aragorn would have company on his self-appointed task. They gathered supplies for the journey, and added many extras to Boromir’s craft, he would be dependent upon himself for the journey. To rescue the hobbits, the others had to leave quickly.

As they launched his craft, Boromir gripped Aragorn’s forearm tightly. “I would have followed you,” Boromir said, “to the ends of the earth. Gondor needs no king, but it does need you.” He pulled off his gauntlets and gifted them to Aragorn. He farewelled the group, but had a final message for his fellow man, “Goodbye, Aragorn,” Boromir said, “my captain, my king.”

With that, Legolas and Gimli gave one final heave to push the boat into the waters. Boromir lifted a paddle and began awkwardly navigating the lake. His injuries made such actions difficult, but the man persevered. Aragorn knew that Gondor would have need of her captain in the coming war. The enemy would make all efforts to deprive them of fine soldiers, Aragorn would see Boromir returned to the field of battle.

On the shore, Aragorn stripped his equipment to only the essentials, and donned Boromir’s gauntlets with a small smile. He would return them when next he saw Boromir. They would reunite in the White City, both sons of Gondor.

With their preparations complete, Gimli and Legolas turned to find the tracks of the retreating orcs. Aragorn pushed the final boat into the rapid current, let the Falls take the craft, they would have no need of it racing across the plains.

As they entered the trees, Aragorn looked back at the solitary boat still floating serenely on Nen Hithoel. Boromir’s clumsy attempts to paddle shifted him in the drifting craft, dumping some of his supplies into the water and causing him to curse loudly.

However, the magic still inherent in the elvish craft assisted his attempts. Boromir was quickly making his way upstream to Lothlórien. Lady Galadriel would be best able to reassure him and lead him to recuperation. The elves would be able to heal the man, perhaps then he would be able to forgive himself.


	6. In which Edoras is taken

The throne room of Meduseld held a sense of poorly stifled despair. Although the members of the court looked to the king for his newest decree, there was little comfort for the attendants. Éomer had relayed the circumstances regarding Théodred’s departure on his last visit to the city. News of orcs moving from Emyn Muir had compelled Éomer to ride out to meet the enemy. Since returning from his raid near Fangorn, days in which Gríma could scheme unopposed had passed.

Though the prince had gone to the North for the sake of Rohan, there was no sympathy from the king. Éomer watched as his sister tried to console their uncle, to make him understand the delicate situation. “Your son, my lord,” she said, “he is gone.” However, Éomer saw no response from the weakened king. Éowyn shifted to stand with him next to the dais; they could not depend on any support beyond themselves.

Gríma seemed gleeful as he stood and addressed the court; he unrolled an official parchment for the seal of the king. Éomer could not bear to listen to the dreaded pronouncement, yet he had a duty to witness all of the king’s commands. Gríma read from the order, “Théodred, son of Théoden-king has broken the contract between Marshal and people, and, by the advice of war-mongers...” he trailed off into other accusations. Éomer would attend the court, yet he could not listen to such nonsense.

“War-mongers,” whispered Éomer to his sister. He felt disgusted by the display against their honorable cousin, a man not present to defend himself. Éowyn made no reply but to clutch at his hand, to receive solace and to reduce his ability to tear the parchment and force it down Gríma’s throat. She knew him too well. The odious little man had found too much joy in the precarious state of affairs in recent days.

Gríma continued with the recitation, denouncing the prince as a deserter and a coward. However, the formal announcement had no bearing on the consequences of Théodred’s actions. There was only one possible judgement for leaving his post without the king’s command. Éomer could only watch in horror as his uncle prepared to sign the parchment that detailed the exile of his only son.

However, the final line of the order was not what Éomer expected. “Having withdrawn himself out of the kingdom of Rohan, and all its domains, Théodred has abdicated his claim to the throne,” Gríma said, “and the seat of the heir to the kingdom is thereby vacant.”

Éomer knew his grandfather had been exiled, though self-imposed, to Gondor years ago, only to return on the death of his lord father. Thengel-king had been welcomed home when his duty called him back to Rohan. With this added caveat, there would be no return for Théodred.

With that, the advisor presented the scroll to Théoden-king for the royal seal and signature. Gríma rolled up the parchment and filed it with his other decrees. Éomer felt the gaze of the court move to him, the last captain of Eorl. However, Éomer had few friends in the stuffy court, his most loyal companions served in the cavalry. They were abroad guarding their borders, protecting the people, defending Rohan.

 

That night, Éomer confronted the advisor on his actions. The defense of the realm depended on Théoden-king’s clear mind, and yet, most decisions were made by Gríma in his name.

In recent days, Théoden-king had not been able to make himself known to the court beyond mere mumbles, which Gríma took for assent. The king had not been willing to listen to other voices, more reasonable ones.

Gríma had filled the court with men who followed his direction, some who did not respond to the orders of Elfhelm, the newest Marshal of Edoras in Théodred’s absence. Not even Gríma could find fault in Théodred’s appointment of his replacement.

Gríma responded to the captain’s anger with cool detachment. “You see much, Éomer, son of Éomund, too much.”

However, Éomer had little to fear from the advisor; his position as Third Marshal was secure. His éored was fiercely loyal to him; they would accept no other commander so long as he was able. With his cavalry company, the defense of the Eastfold was charged to him. Not even the most trusted advisor could convince the king to deprive himself of a proven captain. “You have no authority here,” Éomer retorted.

“You abandoned Edoras to pursue orcs that you say entered the Eastfold,” said Gríma, “yet you allowed strangers to roam the land unguarded.” Éomer knew the king had declared the borders closed, under advisement from Grima. By permitting Aragorn Wingfoot and his companions to pass, Éomer had broken the king’s law.

“For leaving your post in a time of war,” continued Gríma.

“You say there is no war,” Éomer interrupted. He knew the Three Hunters meant no harm to Rohan or its people, the orcs were of more importance. However, by riding with his éored he had taken troops from Edoras across the plains. He had hoped to stop the orcs before they could organize an attack. If there had been an assault on the city during his absence, much innocent blood would have been spilled. In addition, he had ignored a direct order from Théoden-king to remain in the city.

However, the advisor ignored the disruption. “And for breaking the laws of the king, you are under arrest for treason.” Gríma smiled unpleasantly. “To be banished forthwith from the kingdom of Rohan and all its domains.”

Gríma unrolled another parchment, with another poorly scrawled signature from the ailing king. Éomer realized to late that his actions to defend Rohan had cost him the ability to continue to do so.

Éomer protested the decision, but could not disregard a signed order. Théodred’s fears had come to pass, Edoras was deprived of her stalwart defenders. There was evil in Meduseld, conspiring against the king. Saruman’s reach had already worked against the line of Eorl; the city, and the king, had been taken by the darkness.


	7. In which a forest is woken (again)

Merry felt somewhat conflicted about his current placement atop a moving Ent. Treebeard was a conscientious host; he had allowed Merry and Pippin to drink of his unusual brew, he was willing to transport them on his own shoulders, and he was gathering his fellows for a conference about Saruman based on nothing more than their word, though with Gandalf’s blessing.

However, nothing could properly prepare someone for traveling many times their height and at a surprisingly quick speed. Treebeard’s strides were much better at covering a great distance than any hobbit’s.

Since he had no control over their transportation, Merry simply held on tighter until Treebeard arrived at their destination. Although the clearing seemed to be the same as many they had passed, Treebeard lowered his passengers to the ground and let out an echoing boom.

After announcing their arrival, Treebeard settled in to wait for any to answer the call. Merry began to straighten his clothing. It would be a poor reflection on hobbits if he and Pippin were to make a disheveled introduction.

While they fussed, Treebeard looked around the clearing. He hummed to himself, “It is good you come now, everyone is still gathered from naming Little One.”

“What?” Pippin asked, looking up from his careful brushing of his shirt. The orcs had not been concerned with preserving the dignity of their captives. Merry was also curious, Treebeard had made no mention of others attending.

“No matter,” Treebeard ignored the question. “Let the Ents gather in Derndingle, the Entmoot begins.”

Rustling from the forest heralded the arrival of the Ents, though Merry could not predict which trees would enter the clearing through the evergreen hedge, shapes moved from the shadows. The clearing began to fill with many Ents, who formed a rough circle around the three birches in the center of the clearing and began to sway with Treebeard.

Hours later, Merry was ready for the decision of the council. Saruman’s forces would be moving soon on Rohan; he and Pippin were ready to take their place with the Ents, if any would join with them.

Treebeard separated from the circle and knelt before Merry and Pippin. He smiled and stated, “I have shared your names, and we have decided you are not orcs.” He seemed pleased by the announcement; this was good news.

Merry waited for more information, but apparently, that was all that had been decided. “Well that’s good,” added Pippin. Evidently, he had not yet grasped the urgency of their task. They had not the time to continue to deliberate, the armies would not wait.

Treebeard hummed to himself, “And such short names, quick introductions.”

Merry was startled, this was going to be a very long conference if their nicknames, not even their formal names, had caused an hours long conversation. Treebeard added something about old Entish, apparently everything took longer to say, and thus, held more meaning.

Treebeard left to rejoin the circle, hopefully he and the Ents would reach another decision quickly. Merry was growing weary of the discussions. Since the Entmoot showed no sign of completing soon, Merry and Pippin left the clearing with Quickbeam, a younger Ent representing his absent leader. Quickbeam seemed eager to leave the council, apparently, he held the same patience for careful deliberation as Merry.

That evening, Quickbeam listened to the hobbits’ words of Saruman’s corruption. Quickbeam had seen the fires of Isengard, and spoke of orcs moving through the woods. “My rowans have moved far from Isengard, to the valley in the North,” he said. “Orcs torched the birch groves and my leader, Skinbark, has moved to the higher elevations to avoid such evil.”

Quickbeam mentioned that the trees were angered, and that not all could be easily calmed by the Ents. Merry remembered the skill of Treebeared putting a restless willow to sleep. If the trees could no longer be contained, and would not differentiate between orc and hobbit, all would be considered evil. They would find no sanctuary in the forests, a safe haven with its own dangers. Quickbeam spoke of some trees already moved to the North, but there was silence from the southern groves.

Quickbeam commented on the last time the forest had been so restless, entire copses had migrated to the North after goblins were sighted years ago. “Little One mentioned fires,” Quickbeam said, “there is no enemy more hated than those who hack at trees to burn.”

Although Merry was disheartened to hear of the trees being slaughtered, Pippin was excited to know of the fires. “And the Ents had to respond to the fires?” Pippin asked.

“Yes,” hummed Quickbeam, “we followed the trees. Had to call them home.” Quickbeam moved around his clearing, no doubt tired of discussing such disturbing topics. Though Merry wanted to know more, he respected his host’s wishes to speak about another subject.

Merry asked about Little One, the one who had incited the trees so effectively. Quickbeam thought carefully, “He was garbed in red,” he said, “and was small, like you.”

Merry supposed that all creatures would be considered small to Ents. At least this Little One had a sensible height, though he and Pippin were now taller than most hobbits. Perhaps he was a traveling dwarf or small man. Not many would venture into the forest alone, and be able to survive angering the forest.

Pippin pulled on Merry’s sleeve. “Sam said something about a Red Wizard,” Pippin whispered, “Gandalf sent us to gather the Ents, it must be like the Red did so long ago.”

Merry questioned Quickbeam about Little One, but the Ent had little information to share. “He left long ago, Treebeard brought him south toward Isengard,” Quickbeam said.

“And the Red was not Saruman in disguise?” asked Merry, cautious of the White Wizard’s abilities.

“No,” answered Quickbeam, “he was much more polite than Saruman. Little One spoke of the fires and then left to allow the others to discuss. I did not meet him, my favorites had gone to the North and so I followed.”

Merry felt more confident with this new knowledge. With Gandalf to support them now, and following the guidance of the Red Wizard, he and Pippin would be able to call on their new allies. The Ents would no longer be able to ignore the war, it would come to them.


	8. In which the Westfold burns

Éowyn wore her mourning dress for the first time in months, finally free from Gríma’s watchdogs and her home’s slowly increasing sense of suffocation. She was finally able to express her heartbreak without fear of retribution from the encroaching shadows.

She was garbed in black to demonstrate the grief she felt encompassing her. For losing her beloved cousin to the wilds, for the people of Rohan still dying in the ever-increasing raids, but mostly for the absence of despair that had so long plagued her family. Though there was still much to accomplish, Saruman’s spell over the king had finally been lifted.

The Grey Pilgrim, now known as Gandalf the White, had arrived in Meduseld with three companions and thrown off the influence of Saruman. Their presence inspired Éowyn to break away from her shackles of duty and follow her heart. Already, plans had been discussed to ensure the protection of Rohan.

However, not all in her family celebrated in Gandalf’s arrival. The wizard was too late to save many in the city. In addition, Théoden-king showed little joy in his clear mind, he was now able to truly grasp their dire situation. Her uncle had retreated into solitude outside the city, to better clear his mind of the pressures that so dominated in Meduseld.

Éowyn walked to her uncle, standing by the barrows beyond the city walls. He seemed to be contemplating the decision that weighed on him. To ride after the orcs, and face Saruman’s might against their cavalry, or to hide from the enemy and hope to endure.

“Théodred could be recalled,” she said, hoping to lighten the weary king’s mood. Her cousin would return once he had fulfilled his task to find allies for Rohan, and with the new White Wizard already in Meduseld, there was little need to search out the Red.

Her uncle shook his head, “Théodred is leagues away, if he could even be found.” He knelt down and plucked one of the small flowers blooming on the barrow-mound. “And Théodred’s exile, though self-imposed, is official. He knew what he had to do to serve Rohan, and the consequences.” Théoden-king looked out across the plains, as if to seek sight of a wayward rider. “Gríma was many things...” he said, returning his attention to Edoras and its people.

Éowyn thought of the king’s sword, hidden in Gríma’s rooms with other heirlooms of her family. The former advisor had chosen exile, a fate he had bestowed on many, over riding to battle, into a war exacerbated by his inactions. “He was a thief and a coward,” she said, still disgusted by the power wielded by such a degenerate.

Théoden-king nodded and continued speaking. “However, Gríma was an effective statesman. His knowledge of our laws made no mistakes. He broke no laws beyond ineptitude, and used my signature to great effect. Gríma’s decrees are binding. There will be no return for my son.”

Éowyn waited in silence for her uncle to continue. He had much to decide, and she had little desire to add to his unease. Let him have a brief moment of peace in such turbulent times.

Théoden-king gathered his thoughts but made no move to return to the city. “The wizards have taken much from me,” he said. “The former White took my will and ability, and aims to take my people. And yet most heinous of all, the Red Wizard has taken my son, and by my laws I may never seek him.”

Éowyn missed her cousin as well, yet the king was too preoccupied with past occurrences and had not yet faced the future. Rohan’s present state of unease required strong leadership.

Éowyn could stand the helpless delays of her uncle no longer, action was needed. Scouts had reported increasing raids across the land. Orcs roamed the Eastfold, deprived of Éomer’s company. Already, her brother had ridden out with his éored to protect the villages.

Éowyn was pleased that with the departure of Gríma, Rohan’s Marshals had returned to effective service. Éomer had reported that Grimbold held the Fords of Isen under Théodred’s last command, and Elfhelm had departed the city to return to the afflicted Westfold. Wildmen had moved in from Dunland to attack the villages.

The final éored, under her uncle’s command, waited in the city for orders. Éowyn decided to emphasize the need for a decision. Waiting in Edoras would not protect the city nor the villages. “Wildmen are moving through the Westfold,” she said, “burning as they go, every rick, field, and tree.”

Her uncle nodded, he had been present for the reports, yet made no movement to return to the city to announce his decision. He was still gathering and contemplating advice from many others. Éowyn had made her case for battle. Long had she desired to emulate her aunt, Freáhild, the last of Rohan’s shield-maidens.

Éowyn began to speak again, but her uncle motioned for silence. “We will ride for Helm’s Deep,” he said, finally preparing for war. “The wizard’s army will break on our walls.”

Though it was not the orders Éowyn expected, she supported her uncle’s command. Perhaps it would be safer to ensure the protection of the defenseless inhabitants of Edoras. With the king’s departure, the city would have little defenders. In addition, villagers from the assaulted Westfold would go to Helm’s Deep to avoid further danger. The Hornburg would be flush with refugees, a prime target for Saruman’s army.

Éowyn saw Gandalf striding toward them, no doubt anxious to speak with the king. The wizard had proven his skill in sorcery and battle; he would know how to aid Rohan against Saruman.

Éowyn began to walk toward the city, leaving her uncle to discuss matters with Gandalf, but her uncle had one parting thought to share. “Simbelmynë,” he said, twirling the small white flower native to only their countryside, “ever has it grown on the tombs of my forebears, and now, it will never touch the grave of my son.”

With that, Éowyn left her king to confer with Gandalf, perhaps the wizard would be able to help her uncle. Théoden-king was still preoccupied with the fate of Théodred, the people of Rohan deserved more than a distracted king.


	9. In which Faramir tests his resolve

Faramir felt numbed by the ill news he had to report to his father. He had been recalled to the White City to give a report on the enemy’s troop movements through Ithilien. Though the enemy continued to harass the river crossings, there had been no change in Gondor’s borders. He left his men to reinforce the garrison at Osgiliath while he returned to Minas Tirith. The enemy would find no easy way into Gondor. However, his latest vision could not be trusted to any messenger, he needed to speak with his father.

Denethor had made one command of Faramir, to be followed before all others, to use his foresight to better defend Gondor. Faramir felt helpless interpreting the vague visions and cryptic hints, but all advantages had to be applied. The dream he had shared with Boromir had sent his brother to the North on a desperate errand. Faramir’s latest vision carried heavy significance for their family.

Faramir moved quickly through the city, his task was urgent. He was ushered into the throne room, and saw his father slumped into his chair, huddled tightly into the seat.

The war had taken much from his family, his father was wearied by the strain. Faramir wished to tell of grand victories, but the enemy persisted in its ever continuing campaign. And now, he was present to announce a grim final cost.

Faramir spoke of hearing the call of his brother’s horn a few days past, a call Denethor agreed to hearing as well. The Great Horn had sounded within the realm, echoing across great distance, and yet no word from Boromir had arrived. Since riding to Rivendell to fetch Isildur’s Bane, his brother had sent no further news. Perhaps the Halfling mentioned in the shared vision had delayed Boromir’s return, conspiring against Gondor as his father had always maintained.

Faramir told his father of his most recent dream-sight, an ominous vision of Boromir laid to rest in his funeral state. “I saw Boromir lying in a strange craft, grey wood carved into sweeping patterns,” he said, distressed to inform his father of such news. The vision had not revealed any details of his brother’s fate, only a sense of grave foreboding.

“And his horn,” asked Denethor, forgoing the reports of the enemy, “where did Boromir carry the Great Horn?”

Faramir was confused by the question; the horn had not been in the boat, yet his father knew of its absence. His father had limited foresight, but perhaps the dream had again been shared among his family.

“He did not carry it,” answered Faramir, adding a few details, “but wore an embroidered jerkin with thread shining in the light and a cloak with intricate clasp.” Faramir had seen much he did not understand, his brother’s garb had changed since his departure from the White City so long ago.

Denethor swept back his robes to reveal his hands clasping the Horn, yet not all was well. Faramir looked closer at the heirloom, it had been split into two pieces, evidence of a fierce fight.

Faramir felt dismay at the sight, his brother would not permit the Horn to remain in such a state, and his dream had revealed the most likely cause.

“Scouts on the river brought these to me,” said Denethor, still cradling the broken pieces, “your brother called for assistance yet none would come.”

Faramir knew that they had not all the information, perhaps his vision was a warning, not an image of truth. “We know not what has befallen Boromir,” he said, “we should continue the call. Boromir desired aid for Gondor, his horn was sounded throughout the land.”

Denethor scoffed at the idea, long had his father considered such actions an acceptance of weakness. However, with Easterlings moving in Ithilien and orcs assailing Osgiliath, they would need reinforcements.

“Then call for aid,” retorted Denethor, “see how only hopelessness will follow.” Denethor threw the broken pieces to his son, too distraught to hold onto the last remnants of Boromir. Though Faramir wished to impart more knowledge of the fields, his father seemed too ill-tempered to listen. Faramir took the horn and his father’s dismissal, heading back to defend the river.

Faramir knew his father held no hope for aid, long had Gondor stood alone against the creeping darkness. The defense of Gondor lay in her soldiers, men laying down their lives to defend their borders. However, if the river fell, there would be no peace for Gondor. Already, the enemy marshaled Easterlings and orcs at the Black Gate. Gondor needed more than mere rivers to hold back the enemy.

Faramir left the throne room with new purpose. His father had refused to light the beacons to call the southern lords to Minas Tirith, but there were others to send aid. Faramir walked to one of the hidden repositories of the city, a storehouse filled with relics kept in trust by his family; one heirloom of Gondor would be needed.

Though the room was filled with little light, Faramir needed no assistance in finding his goal. A single arrow lay inside a chest carved with images of racing horses. Long had he considered utilizing the heirloom and its painted red arrowhead, but had not the consent of his father. Faramir removed the arrow and went to the stables to ready his mount. He called for Hirgon, a swift rider and trusted messenger.

Faramir secured the broken horn to his saddle and gave Hirgon a message of great importance. “Send forth the arrow of Eorl, let us see if the King of Rohan will honor his pledge,” he said, fulfilling his father’s most recent, though hated, desire.

Faramir pulled at a scrap of cloth around his wrist. He slipped the worn red strip over his hand and tied it to the shaft behind the red-tipped arrowhead. Faramir handed the precious arrow to Hirgon, and gave his last instructions. “I ride for Henneth Annûn. Hirgon, deliver the Red Arrow to Théoden-king and bring back his response. May the kingdoms of men stand together.”


	10. In which an old alliance is honored

Gimli sighed at the state of the Fellowship, he and Legolas were the last of the group still riding to battle. Merry and Pippin lost in the forest with only trees for company, Frodo gone into the wilds with Sam, and Boromir consigned to the silver groves of the beautiful Lady. With Aragorn gone over the cliffs, the refugees of Edoras looked to the sole dwarf for hope. They depended on his skills with an axe and his levity. Too risky to rely on the elf, he would only fold under the pressure.

Gandalf had left Edoras seeking reinforcements; according to Gimli’s father back in Erebor, it was typical of the wizard to disappear when need was great. Apparently, Gandalf had departed from the Company when entering the treacherous Mirkwood on their journey to the mountain. Now, Gimli and Legolas were all that remained of the Nine Walkers.

Gimli was not happy to be constantly jostled on the horse currently trying to dump him every other step. The elf ponce was showing off his riding abilities on their shared mount, and was still able to snipe stray warg scouts. Gimli longed for the end of their trek, seeking solid ground beneath his feet again. No elf would best him in a challenge of deadly efficiency.

After a lifetime of seemingly endless riding, Gimli was rewarded with the sight of a fortress capable of housing the host from Edoras. The great peaks parted to reveal a valley with a strong wall and keep at the base of the mountain, built into the rock. True craftsmanship at its finest.

However, the valley was filled with refugees streaming from the countryside. People pushed their way to the keep, past tents made of cloth strung on thin poles. A rough road wound its way along the causeway, filled with countless people hoping to find shelter in the mountain’s safety.

A rider from the keep, bearing a red shield with a golden sun, rode to meet with the convoy. He spoke with Théoden-king in a low tone, and motioned them toward the stream which flowed next to the causeway. Legolas guided their horse to follow Théoden-king to a tent placed nearest the wall.

The soldier from the keep introduced himself as Gamling, current commander of the garrison at Helm’s Deep. “My king, Lord Erkenbrand has departed to the Fords,” he said, trying to defend his lord’s absence. Théoden-king nodded at the decision, Gimli had seen one of the men’s commanders, Elfhelm, lead an éored from Edoras to reinforce the critical river crossing.

The king pushed aside the tent’s flaps and entered the structure, ducking low to navigate the narrow opening. Though Théoden-king was too far to hear clearly, Gimli heard the soldier add in an undertone, “The Lord of the Westfold was most displeased to hear of another named Marshal in his stead.” Gimli snorted to himself, it seemed that not all was well in the realm, but no business of his.

Gimli flung himself off the horse, finally able to feel the dirt unimpeded again. Sweet merciful ground, he would not look forward to their next long journey. First sprinting, now riding across the land, he welcomed the ability to walk.

Suddenly, the tent flaps swung open as Théoden-king angrily strode out. “I will not trust these men to guard my back,” he said, stalking back to his horse. The king made to leave for the gate, but Gamling grabbed the reins.

“They escorted the villagers of the Westfold,” the old soldier pleaded, “through no promise of reward.” At an angry glare from his king, Gamling released the reins and stepped back.

Another man exited from the tent, dressed in torn clothing and rough furs. He laughed at the spectacle, a king being reduced to scolding from a subordinate. “Then go to your fortress,” the man scoffed, “hide behind your walls while we wildmen are slaughtered by your enemies.”

The king flinched at the accusation, and made no motion to depart. He calmed himself and spoke to the wildman. “What guarantee do we have of your sincerity, that you will not simply slit our throats and open the gates?” he asked, brutally accusing his current host of violence.

“The White Wizard told us to take back our land,” the wildman replied, “stolen by the horse-lords.” At that, several of Théoden-king’s guards grumbled and reached for their weapons, but the wildman continued. “That we have been forced to scratch a living from bare rocks.”

“You made a deal with Saruman?” asked Théoden-king, a harsh tone in his voice. Gimli had no notion of the region’s history, but blood feuds among dwarrows complicated battle alliances.

“Saruman said to burn every village,” the wildman smiled with true delight. “We burned every field and tree, but the houses are untouched. No wizard can tell us our lives are too difficult and that we should pay for an easy life in blood for his name.”

At the refusal of a deal, Théoden-king seemed willing to consider the possible alliance with the wildmen. Gimli understood that battle made for strange friends. He had just ridden with an elf, something that would make his father faint if word reached Erebor.

“Our families are in the keep, women and children,” said the wildman, still trying to reach an accord with Théoden-king. “We are here to protect them, just like you.” With that, the king dismounted and grasped the hand of the wildman, his newest ally. Apparently, even the king understood defending innocents.

* * *

Legolas felt true frustration for the first time in months. Not even failing in his task to safeguard Frodo could compare to facing battle alongside such stubborn men. Aragorn’s return was marred with the knowledge of what faced them.

Aragorn had reported that at least ten thousand Uruk-hai marched on Helm’s Deep, a fortress flush with thousands of peasant refugees. Even with two thousand wildmen to supplement the remaining infantry, they would be outnumbered by over three to one. Soon, they would be slaughtered.

Legolas’ patience was tested by Aragorn’s refusal to understand their plight. After shouting at each other, Aragorn had stormed away to prepare for the coming war.

Once given time to reflect, Legolas sought out his long-time friend. On the eve of battle was no time to fight with allies. Better to leave such anger for his enemies. Legolas found the man inspecting his weaponry, preparing for the fight. Legolas apologized for his words, despair had led him to regret.

The two were startled by Gimli’s loud entrance. He was awkwardly trying to navigate the hallways with ill-fitting chainmail. However, the dwarf managed to lighten the mood, a key skill on such a night. Legolas was ready to stand beside such honorable warriors.

The sound of clear horns filled the hallways of the Hornburg, echoing through the bustling refugees. People stopped and listened to the harmonious notes, already fading into the night.

“That is no orc horn,” said Legolas, wonderment filling his voice. He recognized the signal for an elven host. He and Aragorn ran for the wall, leaving Gimli to struggle with his armor.

Legolas peered over the Deeping Wall, eager to catch sight of the newcomers. His fears for the coming battle were assuaged. A company of archers marched into the keep, led by the Marchwarden of Lórien.

Haldir greeted Théoden-king, who seemed surprised by the arrivals. The Marchwarden looked at the rabble of men surrounding him, clearly unimpressed by the current defenders. “The Lady Galadriel has sealed our borders, now no evil but Sauron himself could drive into our woods,” Haldir said. “We have made safe our lands, under the guidance of a man long at war with the enemy. Since the Captain of Gondor will defend lands not his own, we will do the same.”

Théoden-king looked shocked at the mention of Gondor, perhaps he had no hope of his fellow kingdom assisting against Saruman. Legolas watched as Aragorn greeted Haldir with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

After being released, Haldir continued. “An alliance once existed between Elves and Men. The Captain has reminded us that isolation does not serve us well.” Legolas shuddered in remembrance. Long had his father resolved that the Greenwood needed no outside aid, to the detriment of the forest.

However, Haldir was not yet finished with his offer to Théoden-king. “Long ago, we fought and died together.” The Marchwarden smiled in remembrance. “We come to honor that allegiance.”

With that, Haldir looked to Legolas, he understood the decision of an immortal choosing possible death over peaceful eternity after sailing west. Haldir finished with a salute to Théoden-king. “The Galadhrim will fight alongside men, once more.”


	11. In which Pippin becomes a thief (again)

Pippin was glad to finally be reunited with his friends again. He and Merry had accomplished their goal to rouse the Ents, to the destruction of Isengard. Now Saruman was trapped in his tower, carefully guarded by Treebeard, with only a single servant for company.

The Ents roamed the countryside, trailing after wakened trees. Waves of orcs had fallen once they fled under the boughs of the angered trees. The forest had taken its revenge for the great fires of Isengard. Pippin understood the frustration of not being able to defend oneself, and of finally finding strength.

As he rode in front of Aragorn through the new groves of freshly calmed huorns, Pippin was impressed with his current company. Gandalf was back, and as mysterious as always. Pippin was riding near a king, something of which few other hobbits before he and Merry could boast. Even the others of the Fellowship had demonstrated they were true friends. They had ridden after he and Merry, instead of following Frodo. Though Pippin was sad to hear of Frodo’s departure, he was gladdened to learn of Boromir’s survival and current good health in Lothlórien.

All seemed to be going well for now. Saruman had failed in his attempt to sway favor from the King of Rohan. Pippin shuddered in fear, the people of the region had suffered greatly at the hands of the same orcs which had once held him captive. However, the Uruk-hai were destroyed and now the horsemen rode for home, a triumphant return.

Pippin tightly grasped his barrow-blade, finally returned to his side. Aragorn had given him the sword at Isengard, rescued from the orc pyres of Fangorn. Though Pippin still knew little of swordplay, the blade of his homeland made him more comfortable.

As they crossed the Isen, Aragorn suddenly shifted at some forewarning and pulled to stop their horse. Though Pippin was still not an accomplished rider, he held on as best he could. Pippin saw the others slow as well, Merry looked confused from his placement in front of Éomer. Legolas handed his reins to Gimli and prepared a shot on his bow. A birdcall sounded from the foggy shadows around them, a signal of some kind.

Riders emerged from the mist, garbed in grey cloaks, these were no men of Rohan. The riders carried no visible arms nor did they wear the leather armor so common in the region. There were no sigils to announce their allegiance, however, Aragorn shouted in surprise and rode to meet them. “Friends from the North,” he told Théoden-king, “my kinsmen and shield-brothers.” The newcomers removed their hoods to reveal men with dark hair and grey eyes, easily related to Aragorn.

“This is an odd forest,” said one of the riders, pushing back his dark hair to reveal the pointed ears of an elf.

“Old growth in a new grove,” said the rider next to him in a similar voice. Pippin was surprised to see identical features in both faces.

Aragorn greeted the two elves warmly, and asked for news from the North. The elves grew somber, and spoke of Sauron’s growing influence affecting the abilities of those with foresight. The future was not yet secure, evil could still prevail.

The newly enlarged party continued toward Edoras, however, Théoden-king rode closely with his nephew and the horses bearing the Fellowship. One of the northern men joined them, and introduced himself as Halbarad, leader of the company.

Halbarad reached into his saddlebag and removed a cloth bundle. He pulled back the red cloth to show its contents to Aragorn and Gandalf. Pippin caught a glimpse of shiny glass before Gandalf cursed, grabbed the cloth, and rewrapped it. Gandalf swiftly stowed the strange bundle under his robes, refusing to discuss its contents.

“We must make haste,” Gandalf advised Théoden-king. Though the king was confused by the wizard’s actions, he ordered the company to increase its pace, they would reach Edoras before nightfall. While they traveled, Pippin heard Aragorn speaking with Théoden-king and Halbarad about the hidden object.

“We were forced to cross the Bridge of Tharbad,” said Halbarad, “and found it in the wreckage.”

“But what was it?” asked Théoden-king, confirming Pippin’s suspicions that it must have been something interesting.

“An heirloom of Gondor,” replied Aragorn, “one which had no business so far to the North. Someone must have moved it from its holdings, and lost it as others of the set have been.”

“Or placed it there as a trap,” Gandalf said gravely. The wizard seemed distracted by his cargo, but continued riding toward the city. With Gandalf’s pronouncement, all discussion about the glass was delayed until later.

That night, Pippin waited until everyone else was slumbering in the hall before creeping to where the wizard slept. The red bundle lay loosely within the folds of Gandalf’s robes. The wizard held an arm across the cloth, protecting it in his sleep.

Pippin was startled to hear movement behind him, but realized he was in no danger of discovery. It was only Merry.

“What are you doing?” asked Merry, calling his name in a worried tone.

“I just want to look,” said Pippin. He was curious about the strange glass object, he needed a closer peek. Pippin pulled at the cloth, but Gandalf only clutched at it tighter. Pippin reached for a ceramic pitcher and switched the similar shapes.

However, Merry was not yet finished with his concern.“Are you mad?” asked Merry. “Put it back!”

Pippin hushed at his kinsman, there was no need to awaken everyone in the room. “Just like in Farmer Maggot’s fields,” Pippin said, referring to their hobby of borrowing crops. Stolen mushrooms and carrots always tasted sweeter. However, Farmer Maggot did not share their views on appropriation. Occasionally, the dogs needed distracting with a deft hand.

Pippin unwrapped the red cloth and peered at the glass orb. Its dark surface suddenly swirled with color as Pippin grasped the globe bare-handed.

Suddenly, pain erupted from his hands and Pippin began convulsing. His view was consumed with fire; he saw a white tree, deadened with age and neglect. Flames licked around his vision and reached out to him. Pippin screamed in terror, a voice echoed from the depths of the orb, and Pippin fell to darkness.


	12. In which Gondor calls for aid

Théoden looked out over the valley of Dunharrow, slowly filling with camps as his lords answered his summons. The beacon of Halifirien had been lit, calling for Gondor’s allies to march to battle. Though Lord Denethor had not yet officially requested the cavalries of Rohan, the beacons represented the increasing danger which faced the White City, a warning for the southern lords of Gondor. Aragorn had made great case for the Riddermark to respond.

The wildmen of Dunland had returned to their lands, refusing to ride to further war, not that the Rohirrim had mounts enough to spare. With the Westfold secured, though with strange defenders, Théoden felt comfortable enough to send his riders abroad. Not all of his enemies would send small raiding parties in an attempt to slowly eradicate his people, Théoden would have to march to open war.

However, not all in the camps at Dunharrow would be mustering under his banner. Aragorn and his strange collection of friends, including the thirty northern men, rode for a different path. Théoden remembered the campaigns on which Thorongil had achieved success under his father’s command. Not even the great captain from his youth could possibly hope to find allies under the haunted mountain. However, Aragorn and his friends were under no obligation to march with Rohan, excellent allies though they may be.

With Gandalf and the tiny halfling ridden to the White City, the only remaining member of the company was Merry, a stalwart comrade with a warrior’s heart. However, no enemy would show him mercy, no matter the strength of Merry’s convictions. Even his little blade would fare poorly with such small reach.

Théoden gladly accepted Merry as an esquire of Rohan, for his part in defeating Saruman, yet refused to endanger the halfling by allowing him to ride to Minas Tirith. Merry would do well to follow his king’s first command, to return to Edoras and serve in the austere Meduseld.

The final exclusion from Théoden’s muster weighed on his heart. He refused to allow his beloved niece to accompany him to war. She would be responsible for defending Meduseld should he and the others fail. Though he knew she despised being left behind; it was the only way to keep her safe, at least as much as she could be in such turbulent times.

Théoden’s mind was filled with the memories of his sister’s death. Long had Freáhild served as an able shield-maiden, yet not even her extensive training could save her from orc swords. Freáhild had served as an example to Éowyn; duty over glory, and the dangers inherent in seeking acclaim.

However, Théoden knew that his niece understood the difficulties faced by the villagers left behind. By marshaling every able-bodied rider to march on Gondor, few defenders would be left to serve in Rohan.

The people would need a strong leader; Éowyn would continue her family’s duty. Long had she stood by his side as his mind fell to the wizard’s machinations. No matter the cost, Éowyn would endure and protect the people of Rohan.

That night, Théoden tallied the final count of the men ready to ride in the vale. The lords of Rohan had provided as many men and horses as could be spared; more than expected, but much fewer than needed. To march to war required more arms than Rohan could afford to send. He would be depriving his country of many to save others.

After the captains had retired for the evening, Théoden’s doorwarden announced a final visitor. The tent flaps parted to reveal a rider wearing a green cloak but garbed in the black uniform of Gondor, bearing a message from Minas Tirith.

The messenger introduced himself as Hirgon, a rider sent under the Steward’s command. He opened his saddle bag and revealed a single arrow painted and wrapped in red. Not since the days of Théoden’s forebears had the Arrow of Eorl been seen in Rohan. Though he needed no further official request, the arrow itself the all important message, Théoden waited to listen for more details.

“I bring the Red Arrow, known as the arrow of Eorl,” said Hirgon, fulfilling the ancient tradition. However, Hirgon continued with more specifics. “Gondor’s need is great. The armies of Mordor march on Minas Tirith. Osigiliath is overrun, the river is taken. Gondor calls for aid.”

Théoden had known the enemy was closing in on the kingdoms of men. Éomer had reported a possible alliance between the orcs of Saruman and those under a banner of a Red Eye. The Eastfold had been harassed by the Red Eye orcs, sent from Mirkwood. There had been no whispers in which the shadow in Mirkwood had been associated with the ancient enemy. Apparently, Sauron’s forces moved against the world again.

However, by sending the Arrow, Gondor called the Rohirrim to war. It mattered not against whom. Théoden was duty-bound to assist, so long as he wished to continue his family’s honor as oath-keepers.

The kingdoms of men had marched against common enemies throughout the ages, but none had required such drastic summons. The Arrow bypassed all negotiations; it had been sent to Eorl, on its namesake journey, dipped in fresh blood to represent the dangers of delay.

Théoden accepted the Arrow, touching the red cloth wrapped around the shaft. “We saw the beacons, and have begun to marshal,” he said, seeing no need to continue the messenger’s torment. “In two days time, we march to the White City.”

Théoden saw Hirgon breathe a sigh of relief, the situation must be dire to so affect a trained diplomatic messenger. In addition, Denethor did not seem the leader to send such summons lightly. Once they reached the White City, it would be the end of the threats which faced Gondor and Rohan, one way or another.

Hirgon retrieved the Arrow, and made to leave. Théoden offered food and shelter, but the messenger refused all offers of comfort. “I must return to the city,” said Hirgon, “Lord Denethor will require your answer to plan the city’s defenses.”

Théoden arranged for an honor guard to accompany Hirgon then dismissed the messenger, well aware of the planning which needed to be done. A long night awaited him. There was little time; the longer it took to prepare, the longer the enemy would have to move against Gondor.


	13. In which the White City is besieged

Denethor stared at the prone form of his remaining son, lying on a stretcher in the catacombs. The burial chamber echoed with the sounds of the distant war. There was no peace to be found, not even in a room of eternal rest. The war drums of Mordor announced their constant presence, a reminder of the threat which faced Minas Tirith.

Days ago, Faramir had ridden out as a proud soldier. He had returned in sorry state, dragged behind a limping horse. His son had been stricken by a Southron arrow, likely poisoned, and so the last offense of Gondor had failed.

Denethor had never felt betrayal so personal, not since he had discovered a thief in his household. The Red Wizard had stolen away the seeing-stone of Minas Arnor, taken it from its home and purpose. None but a wizard would dare to strike so brazenly against the heart of Gondor. With such advantage hidden from his family, Denethor had depended on his sons to serve in arms and in reconnaissance.

Gandalf had arrived in the city with another halfling, and made argument for Gondor to hold its position until aid could arrive. Aid no doubt led by the pretender Aragorn, to present him as a conquering hero to the people. Meanwhile, Denethor was forced to order Faramir to the front lines, to push back the orcs across the river. All this, due to his inability to counter the enemy’s movements.

Denethor ignored the presence of Pippin beside him in the necropolis. The tiny guard had pledged himself to Denethor and Gondor, yet served in the colors of the king. The only uniform able to fit such small stature had been the ridiculous costume of Faramir’s youth.

Pippin had required a guide for the city, but quickly learned his duties and responsibilities. The halfling had attended at the Steward’s table well; he had not questioned Denethor’s difficult decisions, made no attempts to sway favor, and made no mention of his obvious allegiance to others.

Denethor awaited the moment Pippin revealed his true intention and purpose in the city. However, the halfling had been an honest voice on many topics. Pippin had shared that Boromir waited in Lothlórien until the roads were made safe, spoke of the plights of other realms, and offered details of the halfling homeland.

Apparently, Gandalf had long held an interest in the region. Such a peaceful land was under the protection of the wizards, able to ignore the increasing evil as the war continued. No wonder Turvellon had chosen to appear as such an overlooked form, it was too easy to retire into ignorance of strife.

Denethor cursed under his breath. Meddling wizards and their unspoken agendas, they cared not for the people of Minas Tirith. His family had long stood against the enemy without thought for compensation nor glory. Now, it became Denethor’s task to prepare the city for its destruction.

At least his sons were faithful. Faramir had understood true duty. He had served his city, to his best ability, no matter the cost. Denethor had little hope for his future. Gondor had failed, akin to the last remnants of his family before him.

Denethor fell to the polished floor and clutched at Faramir on the stretcher. The last captain of the White City had failed in his final task. The river was overrun and orcs swarmed across the Anduin to marshal in the fields. Mordor would march on Minas Tirith without delay.

Nazgûl had been sighted on fell beasts flying over the fields, the generals of Sauron’s forces. Their only remaining defense would be the great walls, which would not hold against the enemy’s machinations. Though the city currently remained free, it mattered not, no walls would deprive the enemy of its victory.

“My son is dead,” moaned Denethor. “Gone to join his brother in our father’s halls.”

“He isn’t dead,” shouted Pippin, still clinging to his tale of hope. “Boromir leads the defense of Lothlórien.” Pippin shifted to look at Faramir, the man’s eyes flickered with pain, still alive to suffer the poison. “Faramir isn’t dead,” the halfling cried.

Denethor was tired of hearing such stories. Pippin was too loyal to his other masters. Thorongil, no matter his true name, had shown his character years ago when he was revealed as a pretender for the crown. The captain had fled from Gondor to avoid responsibility, abandoning his duty, when challenged by Denethor. The man had been a coward, to run from confrontation to preserve his anonymity.

There could be no truth to Boromir remaining in an elven woods. He would not languish in another’s realm. Boromir understood the darkness facing Gondor and would not leave its defenses to others. If Boromir lived, he would have returned to Minas Tirith and Denethor would have his son beside him. “Treacherous little halflings, with your honeyed lies,” Denethor cursed, “the West has failed.”

Denethor’s council had made the judgement to make no war beyond defense. The southern lords could send no aid, still fighting the Corsair threat. The arrow Faramir had foolishly sent to Rohan had returned but without aid. Hirgon swore that Théoden-king marched on the city, but there would be delay. During the march, the armies of Mordor would have days in which to fight unimpeded.

Rohan would arrive as vultures ready to pick over the rubble of a destroyed Gondor. The fields were filled with only the banners of Sauron. There would be no salvation from Rohan, the horse-lords had abandoned them.

Denethor knew the black sails were closing in, slaughtering on their way to the city. The only choice left was the manner of one’s death, or to suffer a lifetime in slavery to the enemy.

“Go back to your precious wizard, working against my family,” Denethor said. “Long has he conspired to take my sons from me, filling their heads with false history.”

“The wizard,” gasped Pippin, finally realizing the futility of maintaining his post, “he will know what to do.”

Denethor had no patience for fools, he had made his choice. The fire would take him, and liberate Faramir from his continued torment. He released his smallest guard from his service and commanded him to leave. “Go forth and die in the manner you most see fit.”

Denethor turned back to the pile beginning to form in the center of the room. “More wood,” he commanded, the pyre would be an end to a legacy of waiting. The line of Stewards would break as the kings of Gondor had, so long ago. There would be no slow defeat for his family.


	14. In which a sword is named

Beregond gasped as the pressure on his chest intensified. The troll currently trying to crush him was only one of the many fighters in the forces of Mordor. The meager collection of men currently surrounded were all that remained from the army which had marched from the White City.

The Rohirrim cavalry, over a third of their force, had been left at the crossroads, to reduce the enemy’s ability to continue to harass undefended lands in Gondor. The horses would be no advantage across the soft ground and festering swamps near Mordor. In addition, they would be better able to challenge the orcs already loosed on the world.

Many of the remaining infantry were ill-prepared when confronted by their first perception of evil’s touch. Some thousand peasant farmers proved their lack of battle experience and refused to cross the Desolation near the Black Gate. Their fear had not offended their commander, for every man present felt the same encroaching dread. To alleviate accusations of cowardice, the farmers were sent to liberate key crossings along the river, to take back Cair Andos and other Gondorian outposts.

Beregond had never before left Minas Tirith, content to serve as a Citadel Guard and occasional guide for visiting dignitaries. His latest charge, Pippin, had ridden out of the city at the head of the army. Beregond had marched to the Black Gate with the last of his fellow soldiers, following the orders of a man clad in the symbol of the king. Aragorn had taken charge of the city guards in the name of the Steward’s line, and was the commander of the unified force.

The absence of Lord Denethor, and of his sons, was a constant sore point for the soldiers of Minas Tirith. Though all understood the necessity for changing field commanders, the lack of guidance from Lord Denethor was unusual. His family had long been a beacon in the White City.

The Steward’s family had been whittled away in past battles, body and mind. They were taken by force whilst executing their duty. Only in injury or death could they be parted from their beloved people.

Boromir had left months ago on a secret errand to the North. Rumors placed him in Lothlórien. Pippin had said that the captain led the defenses of the elven realm. In exchange, the northern border of Gondor was well defended.

Faramir lay in the Houses of Healing, finally receiving gentle care since his brush with the shadow. On advice from Pippin, Beregond had personally confronted the Citadel Guards responsible for securing the doors of the necropolis. Though he had raised his sword in defense of Faramir, it fell against his fellow guards. Beregond felt little remorse for his desertion and treason.

Lord Denethor’s fate remained a closely guarded secret in the Citadel. Of Beregond’s role, only Gandalf and Pippin knew the truth. Beregond marched to Mordor, to his probable death, to regain his honor. For he had abandoned his post to serve at Faramir’s side, and slain his fellow guards, those whose only crime had been following the orders of a madman.

Prince Imrahil, the current acting Steward until Faramir’s recovery, decreed that Aragorn was his liege and granted Aragorn the ability to command the Gondorian army. And so, seven thousand weary soldiers marched to further war, including Beregond.

However, none opposed Aragorn’s claim to leadership, and his ability had been proven. His command over the army of the dead had saved the city, including Beregond’s own sons still present in the city.

After arriving at the Black Gate, Aragorn and his captains had ridden out to discuss terms with Sauron’s emissary. Though he could not hear the exchange, Beregond could only watch as a small bundle of shimmering light was thrown during the negotiations. The wizard loudly refused to surrender, inspiring all free men within earshot, but condemning them to battle. Though this obliged the soldiers to face death once more, Beregond could not find offense. Few others would have been able to stand and speak with such evil.

With that, the Black Gates opened and spilled forth the remaining armies of Mordor. Countless orcs and other fell creatures streamed toward the rabble of soldiers. No matter the terror in their hearts, the men of Gondor and allied kingdoms would stand and face their fates.

Near him, Beregond could hear the cries of men as they continued to fight. The roar of another troll rose above the din, some other soldier had found a fierce foe. However, Beregond could offer no assistance. His vision began to darken as his breathing was compromised.

Beregond’s last sight before beginning to fade was that of a small sword piercing through the troll’s throat from behind the skull. The creature fell forward, further pinning Beregond into the unforgiving ground. Thankfully, the troll’s weight shifted to the side, allowing Beregond to regain his breath, but he was still caught underneath the slain enemy.

Beregond could only stare helplessly at the darkened sky and listen to the sounds of the battle. A rumble sounded from far in the distance, which caused a great cheer to rise from the remaining soldiers.

Beregond cared little for the battle, his part in the war was done. He would meet his fate, for he could not run whilst caught by a dead troll. A small voice piped up from behind the behemoth, shouting about eagles and stings; Beregond was surprised to recognize the lilting cadence of Pippin’s voice. The halfling was blessed with incredible luck and skill to survive such horrors.

Pippin walked around the corpse of his slain enemy, coming into Beregond’s sight. Beregond was pleased to see the halfling uninjured. “Trollsbane,” Pippin said, seemingly decided on something important. The halfing seemed unaware of his surroundings, staring at his tiny gleaming sword.

Beregond remembered the many evenings in Minas Tirith in which he had listened to his son speak of glory and battle acclaim. Bergil’s favorite topic had been the halfling whom he led through the city, Pippin had mentioned only one halfling which bore a battle-blade. Apparently, their realm had little need for swords and no battles in which to earn their glorified names.

Pippin cleaned away the ichor which clung to his blade before turning his attention back to the battle. The newly christened Trollsbane was an apt descriptor. The small sword, and its bearer, could slay great evils.

Another halfling, one of Pippin’s kinsmen, had faced similar dominance against the Nazgûl and yet prevailed. Somehow, the tiny blade had pierced the Witch-king’s shroud. The other halfling lay in the Houses of Healing near a Rohirrim woman and Faramir, all touched by the same darkness.

However, Beregond could not respond to Pippin’s announcement beyond a wheezing exhale. Beregond felt helpless, but hopeful for his now extended future. Perhaps he would live to see his honor questioned, and face judgement for his actions.


	15. In which a wizard is confronted

Gandalf paused outside one of the many occupied rooms in Rivendell. The hidden valley was bustling with activity. Since Aragorn’s coronation, and Elrond’s departure with his daughter and retinue, the residents of Rivendell had much to accomplish.

For the first time in ages, the elves were rushed. Plans were made to ensure final protections before the last of the ships departed from the Grey Havens. Everyone wanted to prepare a lasting legacy of peace, instead of a sense of abandonment for those left behind. Middle Earth would endure, and prosper, without the immortal elves.

Gandalf had returned to Rivendell with the four hobbits, a well-deserved rest on their way to the Shire. Frodo seemed pleased to celebrate his birthday with his uncle in the Hidden Valley. The other members of the Fellowship remained in the South; Boromir reunited with his family in Minas Tirith, while Legolas and Gimli made plans to explore Aglarond and Fangorn.

Inside the room before him, Gandalf heard Frodo speaking with his uncle. The elderly hobbit was finally showing his age. Though it had been many years since his humble beginnings as a burglar, Bilbo was still an honored guest and friend of Elrond.

Gandalf paused in the doorway and beheld the two Baggins of Bag End. Frodo sat near an open window next to Bilbo; both were hunched over a writing desk, intent on the parchment before them.

“Whatever happened to that ring of mine?” Bilbo asked. Gandalf caught his breath, he had long feared how Bilbo would be effected by the ring’s destruction. Perhaps his old friend was still under its thrall.

Bilbo was the only known creature to ever give away the power of the One Ring. Many had been tempted by it; some fell to its whispers while others forced themselves to keep from its darkness. Gandalf himself, and Lady Galadriel as well, had feared what they could accomplish with the ring’s power.

However, Bilbo had never fallen completely under its sway. He had given it up, with amazingly little prompting. Bilbo had walked away, willingly leaving the ring to Frodo.

“Sorry, Uncle, I’m afraid I lost it,” Frodo demurred. Gandalf supposed that destroying an ancient artifact, which was spiritually bound to the deepest evil in the world, could be considered losing it. Gandalf was happy that Bilbo accepted the story without further complaint.

Bilbo had been told about the ring’s true purpose at the council months ago. However, the elderly hobbit’s mind was not as sharp as it had once been. According to the attendants in Rivendell, Bilbo had set off to Erebor with few provisions for his last journey to the East. However, Bilbo had persevered and finally made peace with the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo returned to Rivendell and retired to a quiet life of scribing and composing. Then, the business of the ring had taken hold of the land.

Frodo adjusted the blankets around Bilbo’s small frame. The years were coming quickly to Bilbo, he no longer held an ageless quality and was wracked with fine tremors.

“Oh, pity,” Bilbo trailed off into contemplation, “now where was I in my book?” He picked up his quill and gave it to Frodo to transcribe. “You will have to continue it, my boy. Too much has happened to be written by a tired, old, hobbit.”

“I am sorry, Uncle,” said Frodo, once more apologizing for saving the free peoples, “for your ring.”

Bilbo waved away the excuse. “I lost a book, once,” said Bilbo. “Lost it to the fires of the mountains.” Bilbo paused in his recitation. “But no matter,” he shook his head. “Now then, Frodo, let’s see if your penmanship is up to scribing the runes I found in my travels in the South.”

Gandalf had turned to walk away from the room, but his attention was caught by Bilbo’s comment about his travels. Gandalf had been under the impression that Bilbo had returned to the Shire, with the occasional brief sojourn to Rivendell, after the Lonely Mountain.

Gandalf cleared his throat and entered the room, no longer content to observe. He asked for a moment of privacy with Bilbo. Frodo seemed reluctant to depart, but Bilbo pushed a clinking bag into his hand and bade Frodo to find Sam for a token. “The last of my treasures from Smaug,” said Bilbo, “to reward Sam’s loyalty.”

Bilbo waited until Frodo had left the room, then commented to Gandalf, “I hear Sam followed him into Mordor itself.” Bilbo smiled and said, “I say that is true hobbit stubbornness.”

Gandalf nodded, such loyalty would always be rare. However, he was not interrupting their reunion to discuss Sam. He had many questions about a traveling hobbit, one which had walked the breadth of Middle Earth and yet disappeared without a trace. “And what would you say to the name of Turvellon?” Gandalf asked.

Bilbo sighed and leaned back into his chair. “Turvellon,” he said quietly, “that is a name I have not heard in many years.”

Gandalf felt surprise at the admission. He had expected more deflections or denial. Rarely did he receive, or give, a straight answer. “Many in Rohan and Gondor still speak of the great Turvellon,” Gandalf said, waiting for Bilbo to add more details. Gandalf was curious to hear about the one some said was a wizard.

Gandalf had little knowledge of his fellow Istari. They had been sent on independent missions in different lands, all to break Sauron’s power. He knew that Alatar and Pallando had disappeared into the East, and had no idea as to their location nor success. Saruman had fled the Orthanc with Gríma, still able to sway Treebeard’s mind and project a sense of harmlessness.

Gandalf recalled some of Bilbo’s incredibly un-hobbit traits. Bilbo held a drastically different temperament from other inhabitants of the Shire. He was eager to explore beyond the borders, and had passed on his wandering habits. It was his legacy which had led to four young hobbits going south.

Bilbo also had many suspiciously capable moments. He had recovered a tiny ring in a cavern system filled with goblins, had survived parleying with a dragon, had averted a siege of Erebor with his theft of the Arkenstone, had convinced men and elves to defend a dwarven stronghold, inspired young Estel to take back his birthright, and maintained a youthful appearance for many years.

In truth, Bilbo’s unchanging form was similar to a Maia’s power. Bilbo had remained in his physical prime through his years with the ring. Once parted from the trinket, Bilbo appeared as an elderly hobbit. Perhaps his time in Middle Earth waned since his purpose was completed. Gandalf also felt diminished since his awakening as the White. Middle Earth would have little need for Istari in the coming years.

The legend of Turvellon had grown in Gandalf’s mind. There were many inconsistencies which bore further investigation. A scratched book near Moria. A guest of the Ents who had awakened the huorns, according to Merry and Pippin and confirmed by Treebeard. Lord Denethor had been most vocal in his hatred of a wizard; a halfling which had visited Gondor and taken with him one of the palantíri, which was then found when their need was great by Aragorn’s kin.

Bilbo laughed at the notion of his grandeur, but grew somber. “Turvellon is not always a pleasant memory for me.” Bilbo admitted, “I did many things by that name, including my greatest mistake.”

Gandalf reached out to console his friend. Bilbo looked down at his book, as if it contained answers or excuses. “I ignored my responsibilities to further my personal agenda,” Bilbo continued, “and needed drastic action to send me back to the decent path.”

Gandalf understood the burdens of responsibility. Long had he worked against the evils of Sauron, spending centuries to shape countless generations of men. He had sacrificed many individuals to protect future dynasties. Gandalf was not proud of his actions, and inactions, though the results benefitted all free peoples.

Gandalf had long wondered if Turvellon could be another of his fellows, sent to guide and protect Middle Earth. Each of the wizards were ignorant of many details of each other, to better ensure the final defeat of Sauron. This had allowed Saruman the freedom to fall to corruption, but protected the plans for the One Ring’s destruction.

Gandalf remembered that Yavanna had appointed a champion, Aiwendil, to safeguard the forests of Middle Earth, and yet her children had been overlooked by the other peoples. The machinations of the wizards tended to focus on the larger kingdoms. Perhaps the Shire had harbored its own strong protector, one which had worked from the hidden shadows.

Though he had not received all his answers, Gandalf was content with the truth shared by Bilbo. His old friend was unwilling to discuss the details of Turvellon. Gandalf understood the desire to move beyond past mistakes.

If the tales were true, Turvellon had acted as befitting an Istari; constantly seeking the destruction of Sauron above all other interests and obligations. Gandalf said his farewells to Bilbo, leaving the hobbit to his contemplation.

Gandalf left the room with new direction. He would have to speak with Círdan and Lady Galadriel. Perhaps there would be room on the ship for another ringbearer, and one with connections to the Maia. Bilbo and his nephew had given much in service to Middle Earth. They deserved peace, after sacrificing themselves to attain it.


	16. In which the Shire is cleansed

Lobelia stormed out of Bag End, clutching her umbrella. Though the clear skies heralded no stormy weather, Lobelia was a firm believer in always being prepared to jab an annoyance in the shin. It was also a good walking stick, her balance was not as dependable as it had once been.

However, her foul mood had no outlet in the sunny lane. She had been forced from her home by a guest. She was Mistress of Bag End, and yet her ungrateful son had allowed his business partner from the South to take over the smial.

Her impeccable manners had not to allowed her to throw out Sharkey and his lurking servant the moment they arrived in Hobbiton. She had been forced by hosting etiquette to welcome the unkempt travelers into her home, and now Lotho followed all of Sharkey’s commands.

Even the band of ruffians hired by Lotho to expand his business had no respect for Lobelia. They took directions only from Sharkey, a most disagreeable man. In addition, Lotho had yet to satisfactorily explain how he knew the disheveled beggar.

Lobelia fumed as she walked to the main roadway. She had finally convinced Frodo to let go of the foolish Baggins fascination with Bag End, ending a line of disrespectful bachelors with their stubborn love of adventure. Frodo had moved to Crickhollow years ago, allowing Lobelia and her son their rightful inheritance.

And now, months after Frodo’s disappearance, no matter the delaying and prevaricating of the impostor Fatty Bolger, disreputable men had invaded Bag End. Their employees seemed to spend their days trying to force honest hobbits to sell their land. Lotho’s pipeweed business would never need such expansion in Southfarthing, something unsavory was happening in her home.

Lobelia blamed Bilbo, none of this nonsense would have happened before his mysterious journey and resurrection. If Bilbo had simply stayed dead when declared officially, then Lobelia and Otho could have managed the smial and its proper reputation. Instead, she had been relegated to snitching pieces as often as she could finagle her way through the door. And yet, even after gaining possession of Bag End, it was still not completely her home.

As Lobelia quietly stalked along the lane, she began to hear an unusual sound. Heavy footsteps heralded the arrival of another stranger, this one riding on a large horse. Though Hobbiton was not without its visitors, most men stabled their horses in Bree to avoid the narrow and winding lanes of the Shire.

Lobelia stood patiently by the side of the main road, waiting for the strange man to pass or introduce himself.

The horseman paused and dismounted before her, sweeping back his grey cloak to reveal intricately decorated armor. Lobelia sniffed, only someone ridiculous or villainous would need armor outside a mathom-house.

“I am Théodred,” said the horseman, rushing through the introductions. “I seek the horn which was sounded last night.”

Lobelia introduced herself, but the man seemed too impatient. Since men had arrived in the Shire, good manners had lapsed. She couldn’t blame Théodred for having poor conversation skills.

Lobelia had also heard the lilting horn the previous day. A powerful tone had sounded, just after one of the jarring horns Lotho’s minions carried. Lobelia had no notion to the source or reason behind disturbing the peace in such manner.

Lobelia had seen Sharkey arranging for his men to be able to quickly call one another. Lotho swore it was in defense of the leaf plantations, to protect against trespassers and other interlopers. However, all it seemed to accomplish was to create larger mobs of men to harass decent hobbits.

Lobelia felt no shame in sharing the fact that her son’s partner was to blame, though she had no further knowledge to aid the stranger. “The first horn was a call for Sharkey’s thugs to send assistance,” she said. “Though I do not know against whom.”

Théodred nodded. “The second horn is that which I seek,” he said. “It is from my homeland, a people who would have no business with such scoundrels. They would stand against the thugs, as I have done with the remaining rangers.”

Lobelia had witnessed Sharkey in foul moods some evenings. Many of his men had reported altercations against the rangers who patrolled the borders of the Shire. Apparently, the organized resistance had provided the men with much difficulty. It had thinned the available personnel, lessening Lotho’s ability to convince hobbits to sell their property in Southfarthing.

Lobelia had always longed to be an influential pillar of the community, but she had never wanted a reputation as power-mad or greedy. Her son seemed unable to see the difference.

“Only fools would stand against Sharkey’s men,” she said. “Try Buckland, or Tuckborough, the crossroads are to the South.”

Théodred leaned closer and whispered, “And could you assist me in finding one known as Turvellon?”

Lobelia had no idea as to the identity of the mysterious person. “None by that name live anywhere within the Shire,” she replied.

Théodred thanked her and said, “The wizard is proving very difficult to find.”

Lobelia had no desire to become involved in wizard business. She had seen what it had done to Bilbo, and Frodo, consorting with Gandalf and other strangers. Since Gandalf had not been recently seen in Hobbiton, and she had no idea as to his location, Lobelia made no mention of the wizard. She stepped back to allow Théodred to mount his horse.

Once ready to depart, Théodred warned her to avoid the ruffians, telling Lobelia of the danger inherent in such mercenaries. Though she needed no reminder, as she saw it every evening, Lobelia appreciated the sentiment.

Lobelia waited until Théodred had ridden down the lane before stepping onto the roadway. Lobelia was pleased to encounter a fine gentleman such as him. It had seemed as though all big people were incredibly selfish, akin to Sharkey and his thugs. At least there were some honest folk still around, like the rangers. Perhaps she had been to hasty to judge all men on such unsavory examples.

Lobelia had never been fond of outsiders, preferring to stay within the Shire and its carefully constructed social conventions. She knew what to expect of her fellow hobbits, excluding Bilbo’s adventures and Lotho’s emerging greed. It was exhausting interacting with those who did not adhere to proper protocol.

Lobelia sighed and turned around, retracing her steps back to Bag End. She paused at the garden gate and stared at the precisely trimmed rose bushes beside the green door. The smial was impeccable, and yet she felt no joy in returning to it. The facade of perfection did little to disguise the shroud of Sharkey’s influence.

She was starting to despise the fine home, hating the divisions it had created within her family. She would have to wait for Frodo to return from the dead, for he would come back, no adventure could deprive Hobbiton of its resident Mad Baggins. Frodo could have Bag End with all its sordid history.


	17. Epilogue: In which a final mystery is resolved

Sam welcomed Merry and Pippin into Bag End, closing the door behind them. He motioned for his friends to follow him deeper into the smial, passed boxes and random furniture strewn throughout the hallways. Since Frodo’s departure with Mister Bilbo, sailing across the sea with the elves, Sam had been busy arranging some sort of order into the home.

Bag End had hosted many families in recent years. Saruman’s foul spirit had been banished, forced to wander as a powerless wrath, leaving Gríma to flee a horde of disgruntled hobbits. Lobelia had retired back to Hardbottle, taking her son with her.

Though Lotho had hated to be parted from what he called his inheritance, Lobelia had repudiated all claims by her family. Sam had been grateful that Frodo had been welcomed back to his home, after so long away from his rightful place.

Sam led the way into one of the offices, pausing to unlock the door. The room was filled with papers and books, and a table containing piles of clothing and a single chest. Sam gestured to the open chest before him; he heard the rustling of Merry and Pippin behind him as they realized what he had found.

“What do we do with it?” Sam asked his oldest friends. “I don’t want Elanor finding it.” Sam felt helpless in the confusing situation. No manner of planning could have prepared him for finding the chest, and especially its contents, in his home.

Merry shrugged, “Go on, Pip, you have the experience. And besides, it should be safe, no Dark Lord, now.”

Pippin shouted in alarm. “I’m not touching another of those cursed things.” He shuddered in memory of the last time he had been too nosy. “If it’s so safe, you pick it up.”

The three hobbits continued to stand around the small chest; Sam had found it while cleaning around the smial, attempting to bring organization to the years of Baggins accumulation. Now that Bag End would house children again, he had to make it safe for curious explorations. Tiny hands and eyes could find all sorts of trouble.

The chest had been buried beneath piles of traveling clothes, bags filled with books and scribing materials, pushed into the darkened recesses of a closet. The closet was attached to a rarely used office, only being utilized since Rosie had rearranged the household chores. She was very efficient in cleaning and organizing the large smial.

Sam had moved the strange chest to the table, to better see its interior, then left to fetch his friends. He had locked the office door, to protect his family, and returned with Merry and Pippin. However, his friends made no move to touch it and simply stared.

The chest looked out of place on a table filled with folded laundry, but the hobbits were too concerned with what was inside. Nestled in a bed of soft cloth, the innocent looking glass globe carried no visible taint of the former evil which had once consumed Middle Earth.

“Send it to Aragorn,” Merry decided, “he used the one that Pip had with no ill effects.”

Sam sighed, “Minas Tirith is months away, and I don’t trust a messenger bird with this.” He grabbed one of the handkerchiefs off the table and threw it on top of the globe to put it out of sight. Although the orb was now hidden, the open chest was still too much of an invitation. Pippin reached out and closed the lid, the final thud bringing sighs of relief to the hobbits. “Send it to Bree, Théodred-king must have a way of contacting Aragorn,” Pippin said.

Sam nodded, he tucked the chest safely under one arm and walked out of Bag End with his friends. Rosie shouted something about missing one of her father’s handkerchiefs, but Sam wasn’t willing to retrieve it from the chest. The trio parted as Sam made his way across the river.

Sam refused to keep the chest in his home for any longer. He had no desire to keep it anywhere near his family.

 

* * *

 

Théodred looked up from his treatises on trade along the Greenway. One of the doorwardens had placed an ornately carved chest on the table, almost upsetting a pile of parchment. Though he greatly desired a diversion, Théodred had little time for frivolous distractions.

Théodred eagerly opened the mysterious chest, in truth expecting no more than another mathom. For some reason, the hobbits persisted in gifting him with all manner of poorly maintained weaponry, as they considered proper care unnecessary, to decorate his household. “And you say a hobbit dropped it off?” he questioned the doorwarden.

Théodred was confused by the contents, the intricate chest seemed to contain a small pile of cloth. A delicate handkerchief embroidered with a large red letter was draped over some hidden object.

Since being crowned king in Minhiriath, a gift from High King Elessar, he had many dealings with the small creatures to the West. Théodred was responsible for the refugees repopulating the empty region, and protecting them from the stray wights which still roamed the wilds. However, no hobbit had ever sent such a strange package. Most inhabitants of the Shire prided themselves on proper etiquette and introduced themselves before presenting any gifts.

The doorwarden nodded, “Yes, my king, he said to send it to King Elessar and none other. And to be wary about touching it.”

Théodred waved the doorwarden back to his post. The man had done his duty well, now it was Théodred’s task to continue the delivery. Théodred carefully picked up the embroidered handkerchief, but dropped it in shock. The hobbit was correct, only High King Elessar could control such relics. The High King had asked for an update on the status of the North; Théodred would travel to Minas Tirith himself and safeguard the chest along the way.

Though Théodred had failed in his self-appointed task to find the Red Wizard, it seemed that the Istari was still assisting the kingdoms of men. None could match the wizard’s uncanny ability to anticipate the future.

The last ships from the Grey Havens had contained many powerful beings, as well as a mysterious pair of small creatures. One such individual was believed to be an elderly hobbit. Rumors across the Reunited Kingdom placed wizards on that ship, along with those who had worn the rings of power.

Though he had passed from this land, it seemed that Turvellon had not yet finished his business in Middle Earth.


End file.
